Of Nightingales
by Thrice Seven Once Eleven
Summary: The nightingale in Berkeley Square was more of a message than anything else, really, because it was the only culture reference Aziraphale would understand.  Crowley is annoyed, Aziraphale is pleased, and all is well with the world.


[A/N: I'm going along with Quantum-Witch's hypothesis that Crowley's flat is on Adam's Row, in Mayfair. (She has compiled a brilliant list of similar ideas, which I demand you go and look at right now. It's here: -http :/ quantum- witch. com /bentbooks /favethings. htm- but without the spaces). This particular plot bunny has been bouncing around in my head ever since I looked up the song reference, but I don't hold that this fic is part of what I will call my personal canon, even if it was lots of fun to write. Anyway, it takes place just after they have lunch at the Ritz at the end of the book. None of the characters are mine, and neither is the song.]

* * *

**Of Nightingales**

Neither was quite sure why it had happened. Understandably, Crowley was the more astonished of the two.

He didn't bother to consider what to do about his name, and he didn't waste time on where he would go. Crowley was who he was, and Earth was where he belonged. And he would stay on Earth, and – he swore this next bit with a dark scowl and white-knuckled fists, much to Aziraphale's amusement – he would continue to be a flash bastard. Good and Evil were just names, after all; he'd always said so, and it would be more than a little bit hypocritical of him to pick up a harp just _because_.

Aziraphale was both pleased and deeply concerned, because if Hastur turned out to be the demon assigned to Earth – which was more than likely, Crowley said, given Hell's particular style of retribution – then he would almost certainly come after Crowley, and things might be very difficult from there on out.

Crowley only laughed at him when he voiced these worries. "I'm bloody staying," was all he said. That, and then, "Besides, Hastur's even more old-fashioned than you are and even more incompetent than both of us put together. He isn't dangerous, he's _obsolete_." And when he smiled, he still looked like a snake, which Aziraphale found comforting.

Nothing had changed, really. It was different, but it hadn't _changed_.

The drive home was unusually quiet, as both beings were lost in thought. _Why?_ Crowley wondered for the umpteenth time that night, though he thought he might know. He was an optimist whose expectations of the inherent good of humanity had been fulfilled, and the distinct _lack_ of apocalypse had left him with a smug, warm little glow of _I-knew-you-would_ burning behind his eyes. He'd felt that way before, once upon a time.

"_It might be written differently somewhere else," said Crowley. "Where you can't read it."_

"_In bigger letters."_

"_Underlined."_

"_Twice."_

"_Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," said Crowley. "It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?"_

Well, that had been it, hadn't it? That, and the business with the tire iron. He hadn't actually done anything with it, but he had _meant_ to, and that was what counted. Of course, he would have fought against Heaven with just as much desperate conviction if he'd had to, but he suspected that was beside the point.

Aziraphale suddenly burst into peals of laughter. Crowley swerved, and stared at him in alarm. "Angel, what –"

"Maschwitz," Aziraphale howled, "_Nightingales_," and Crowley could get no sense out of him for several more minutes.

At last, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes and still hiccupping occasionally, Aziraphale pulled himself together enough to explain. "Just then, Crowley, when we drove past the Square, there was a lull in the traffic and did you – oh, _Crowley_, did you hear the birds?"

Crowley shrugged. "Sure."

"One of them was a nightingale," Aziraphale told him, beaming and chortling as if this were somehow of great significance.

Crowley took a few calming breaths. "Your unholy fondness for things avian worries me sometimes, you know."

Aziraphale made a rude gesture that hadn't been seen this side of the Mediterranean in at least seven hundred years, but he was still laughing breathlessly. "1940, lyrics by Eric Maschwitz and I can't remember who wrote the tune, but I remember Judy Campbell sang –"

"Would you _please_ get to the point."

Aziraphale waved a hand, and music filled the car. Crowley only listened to about thirty seconds of it before he let out a hiss of disgust.

_When two lovers meet in Mayfair, so the legends tell,__  
__Songbirds sing and winter turns to spring.__  
__Every winding street in Mayfair falls beneath the spell.__  
__I know such enchantment can be,__  
__'cause it happened one evening to me_

Crowley groaned. "I hate this song so much."

"Shh," said Aziraphale.

_That certain night, the night we met,__  
__there was magic abroad in the air,__  
__There were angels dining at the Ritz,__  
__and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._

"Stop _humming_," Crowley demanded. "Okay, I get it, Ritz and nightingales and Berkeley Square and whatnot. What's your point? No, _don't rewind it_, just tell me."

_I may be right, I may be wrong,__  
__but I'm perfectly willing to swear__  
__That when you turn'd and smiled at me,__  
__A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square_.

Aziraphale warbled along, but stopped when Crowley pulled over and threatened to strangle him. The music faded, much to Crowley's relief.

Aziraphale turned to him, triumphant. "My dear boy, don't you see? Either Maschwitz was a prophet, or God has a very peculiar sense of humor." He paused, frowned a little. "Probably both, actually."

"I don't _see_ anything," Crowley snapped, "except for a smug angel who will be very _dead_ in about half a minute if he doesn't tell me what rubbish he's got rattling around in his empty skull."

Aziraphale's good humor refused to be extinguished. "There were angels dining at the Ritz," he repeated firmly. "Angel_s_, Crowley. Plural. It's like what you said. It's written somewhere where we can't see it, but it'll be all right. I _know_ everything will be all right now."

Crowley looked at him, blinking in astonishment, and then he swore, loudly and at great length. Aziraphale smiled, beatific, and nodded along with the music that started up again.

And that was how they drove the rest of the way to Crowley's flat – one laughing quietly to himself and humming, the other muttering threats.

Nothing had changed, really.

* * *

_The moon that lingered over London town;__  
__poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown__.__  
__How could he know we two were so in love,__  
__the whole darn world seemed upside down.__  
__The streets of town were paved with stars,__  
__it was such a romantic affair,__  
__And as we kissed and said goodnight,__  
__a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square__._

_Our homeward step was just as light__  
__as the tap dancing feet of Astair.__  
__And like an echo far away,__  
__a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square__.__  
__I know 'cause I was there, that night in Berkeley Square._


End file.
